


Line of Demarcation

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Backstory, Challenge Response, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Huddling For Warmth, Kissing, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Memories, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Use, Sharing a Bed, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2096187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 15<br/>This challenge is called "Trope Bingo," in which you select a row of 5 tropes to write. I'm combining the first three tropes into one story, a chapter for each trope.</p><p>Part 1: Hiding Place<br/>While on a case, Sherlock and John seek shelter from the rain and end up sharing memories of their youth and a first kiss.</p><p>Part 2: Go Slow<br/>Things heat up as the temperature drops. (A 221b ficlet)</p><p>Part 3: Want and Need<br/>Out of sync again, John and Sherlock find themselves sharing a room and a bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiding Place

**Author's Note:**

> Trope 1: Kissing in the Rain

John didn’t like being on the moor. It was cold and misty and brought back unpleasant memories of being terrorized by a monstrous dog. _Hound_ , he corrected himself somewhat sarcastically. _A bloody hallucinatory hound._ They were back in the area to investigate the disappearance of a young local woman. She’d been missing for a week, was last seen heading off on one of her solitary walks.

“Abducted, injured, or running away,” Sherlock had rattled off after reading her parents’ urgent request for help. “Let’s go have a look.”

Now John was brushing strands of cobwebs from his face as they tramped through a thicket of trees and undergrowth, the mid-morning light already dimmed by heavy clouds turning even darker in the woods.

Maybe Claire, the missing young woman, was currently lying snug in bed with a secret lover, John hoped. Or maybe she was lying at the bottom of a ravine, dead. A slip of the foot, or a push...

Dreadful thought. He turned his mind instead to the promise of a warm fire and a pint once they returned to the small inn where they were staying. Or a hot toddy sounded good...

He paused, realizing he’d lost track of which direction Sherlock had gone. It was then that his eyes landed on a bright red string snagged on a branch.

“Sherlock,” he called out. “Wasn’t Claire wearing a red scarf?”

Sherlock materialized within moments, and John pointed to the snippet of frayed crimson yarn.

Sherlock peered closer. “That’s hers,” he confirmed. “It matches the scarf in the picture.” He straightened up, extended his arm, fingers outstretched. “Don’t move,” he told John. “Take a photo of the yarn and be sure to include the coordinates. Send it to the inspector and tell him to dispatch the search team again, dogs, tracking expertise.”

John pulled out his phone as Sherlock scanned the ground, moving carefully, looking for footprints or trampled grass, any telltale sign of where Claire might have passed. He was crouching low, fingers hovering over an indentation in the mud when the rain began to fall.

“Dammit,” Sherlock muttered. This wasn’t helping any remaining evidence. Pulling his coat collar higher to keep the rain from rolling down his neck, he looked ahead through the trees, saw a rocky outcrop with an overhang that might provide some shelter. He waited while John finished up then motioned with his head toward the rocks. They jogged across an open expanse, ducked low under the outcrop, settled on the floor of cold stone with their backs against rough rock, the overhang providing a decent roof to keep them dry.

Sherlock held up a cigarette butt. “We’re not the first ones to find this place.”

John looked around, noticed a few wrappers and empty beer bottles. “D’you think Claire was headed here? To meet someone?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Could be.” He flicked the cigarette away -- it was too old to be connected to the case -- rested his head back against the natural wall.

John did the same, listening to the hiss and drip of the rain. “Maybe she just left everything behind,” he wondered aloud. “Didn’t sound like there was much for her here. Nineteen, unemployed, living at home, few friends.”

Sherlock was silent, and John continued to think out loud. “But she’d need money, and a way out of here. I suppose she could’ve walked to the next town, took a train…”

“That’s what I did,” Sherlock said quietly.

John glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

“I left unannounced around that age. Stole money from my parents, took a train, rattled around, went to Paris, abused various substances... Mycroft rounded me up, eventually.”

“They must have been worried sick.”

“I didn’t consider that. I just wanted to get away.”

They watched the rain and tattered clouds race by. John looked at his hands, flexed them. If they were going to share stories… “I left home when I was 18. My dad kicked me out, actually,” he admitted.

This time Sherlock turned to look at him. “What happened?”

“He was a drinker. An increasingly mean one, over the years. We fought a lot as I got older,” he subconsciously hunched his shoulders, remembering. “Anyway… I went to live with Harry for awhile, got myself into university, did a bit of traveling, then the army. Maybe Claire’s home life wasn’t so nice, either.”

Sherlock nodded slowly. He wasn’t surprised to hear John’s story; he’d always suspected something along those lines. A sudden thought struck him, and he let out a soft laugh.

“What?” John asked.

“Maybe we passed each other on a train all those years ago, traveling. It wouldn’t be completely improbable.”

“Now there’s a thought.” John smiled. “I doubt you would have noticed me.”

Sherlock paused, flicked his eyes over to John’s. He held his gaze for a long moment, then finally said, “I would have noticed.” He looked away.

A shiver ran up John’s spine, uncoiling in his belly, all his carefully buried feelings suddenly rising up, shaken awake again by that gaze, those words.

Sherlock kept his eyes down, stunned that he’d said that out loud, the words slipping by uncensored. He’d been so careful not to reveal anything… Now he could feel John’s eyes burning into him and he was afraid to look up, afraid to find rejection or mocking waiting for him. _Fine, it’s out. Just be neutral, distant._ He forced his gaze back to John’s, his expression not nearly as impassive as he willed it to be. John’s face was serious, his eyes intense, searching, the atmosphere now charged.

The rain fell in sheets and they slowly turned toward each other, their heads drifting closer, eyes watchful, breaths held. John saw something waver in Sherlock, defiance dissolving into vulnerability, giving him the courage to close the space between them, to cover Sherlock’s mouth gently with his own, reassuring him this was wanted, lingering for a moment, then pulling back slightly, making sure it was reciprocal. _God, please let it be reciprocal._

Sherlock hesitated, then leaned forward again, sinking into a short, soft kiss, then another, longer this time, falling under a spell of warmth, longing, intimacy.

John let his hand slide up to Sherlock’s jaw, his lips finding that glorious mouth again and again, only half aware of the rain, feeling alive and electric, casting back to the angry young man he’d been -- determined, hungry for challenge, motion, for everything and anyone -- and how volatile and dangerous Sherlock must have been in his youth, and what if they had met...

But now, years later, they were here, tucked away in an ancient hiding place that had no doubt sheltered countless others before them. _The perfect spot to slip away to smoke and drink and snog and fuck,_ John thought -- the last word unexpectedly shooting through him like fire, burning him with images of peeling back Sherlock’s clothes, laying him across a bed, running his hands down his ribs to his narrow hips… John’s tongue probed into Sherlock’s mouth, eliciting a soft groan, a tightened grip of hands on his shoulders.

_Let Claire be safe,_ John thought, heat in his veins, fingers curling into damp hair, the scent and roar of rain surrounding them, _Let her be alive and entangled in someone’s arms and not angry and adrift for years. Let her be safe and kissing someone insatiably, breakingly, like this… and this…_


	2. Go Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up as the temperature drops. (A 221b ficlet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trope 2: Huddling for Warmth

John’s hand curved, roamed up Sherlock’s thigh, the other hand behind his neck, his mind’s eye envisioning zippers undone, grasping, haste. _No. Wait. We shouldn’t rush things._ John broke away, slid his hand to the slightly safer territory of Sherlock’s knee.

“We should… go slow,” John said hoarsely, not able to release him completely, his thumb skimming the hollow of Sherlock’s throat once more before lifting away.

Sherlock let his eyes drift shut. “You're right…”

They were silent, a bit breathless, dropping their backs against the rock wall again, the rain a steady drizzle, the temperature noticeably falling. Sherlock ran his fingers across his own lips before resting his forehead against his drawn-up knees, retreating into himself.

_What just happened?_ No one ever got to him like this, he didn’t allow it. _And yet… and yet._

John guardedly studied Sherlock, suddenly afraid he’d just overstepped every boundary possible, feeling panicked. _Oh shit. Shit._

They sat, immobile, trapped in their own thoughts. Sherlock finally turned his head, looked inscrutably at John from beneath a fringe of curls. John didn’t know what to do.

Sherlock answered the question by moving again, unfolding his frame and refolding it against John’s side, resting his head against his shoulder, one arm going around his waist. “I’m cold,” Sherlock said.

John’s arm went round him. “Better?”

“Better.”


	3. Want and Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3: Out of sync again, John and Sherlock find themselves sharing a room and a bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trope 3: Sharing a Bed

The rain finally stopped and the search team arrived and they set aside everything that had transpired between them. Back to work. Always the work.

But as John watched Sherlock, he thought he could detect the slightest air of distraction, his whirlwind pace reduced a notch. Leaving the tracking to the police, they walked back toward the village together in the afternoon, Sherlock barely looking at John, hardly speaking a word.

“I need to talk to the parents again,” Sherlock finally said as they neared the inn.

“Alright,” John agreed.

“I’ll go alone,” Sherlock said in a clipped tone, then turned and strode away, leaving John staring after him.

John frowned, then continued on to the inn. A pint was sounding very, very good at this point. He first went to his room, showered, returned downstairs to write up some notes and have something to eat and drink. He was famished and wanted to focus on something other than Sherlock. But his pen kept stilling as he remembered the touch of Sherlock’s mouth; his head lifted every time someone entered the doorway; his hand kept reaching for his phone, checking for a message that didn’t come.

He finally went for a walk, hoping to run into Sherlock. He gave up, irritated, found a pub with football match on, ordered another pint. _The hell with it._

An hour or so later John left the pub, his hands jammed into his pockets as he walked quickly, head down, the night quite cold. His mind was elsewhere as he went up to his room, his hand already on the doorknob when he noticed there was no light spilling out from under the door to Sherlock’s room. Not back yet, apparently.

John entered his own room, sat on the edge of the bed, trying to understand what was going on. The gaze, the kissing... oh, God, such kissing, rapidly accelerating until he himself had slowed it down, their arms around each other, waiting for the rain to stop... and now they were completely out of sync again.

There was a soft knock at the door. John lowered his head, considered not answering it. But he sighed, crossed to the door, opened it anyway.

It was the innkeeper, Mrs. Wilson. She stood there wringing her hands. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, Dr. Watson, but, well… I’m afraid I made a mistake with the rooms. I wrote down a date wrong, and there’s a group here expecting rooms…” she continued nervously, “and I was hoping that, maybe, since your room is bit bigger and has the sofa and attached bath, if maybe you and your, uh… friend, colleague... that is, Mr. Holmes, might consider sharing. With a discount, of course. I haven’t seen Mr. Holmes to ask…”

“Ask Mr. Holmes what?” Sherlock suddenly loomed behind Mrs. Wilson, pulling off his gloves, and her hand flew to her chest. As she explained the situation, Sherlock looked over her head at John, then further into the room, first at the double bed then the sofa.

“Oh, I’m sure Dr. Watson wouldn’t mind the sofa for one night,” Sherlock said, giving her one of his most charming smiles.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she exclaimed. “I’ll let the guests downstairs know. I’ll make sure you’ll get an extra big breakfast,” she promised before rushing back down.

“I’ll just move my things,” Sherlock called after her, then turned back to John.

John glared at him. “ _You’ll_ take the sofa." He folded his arms and watched as Sherlock deposited his overnight bag in a corner and took off his coat, unwrapped his scarf. “When did you become a good Samaritan?” John asked drily.

“I saw the lot downstairs. Self-entitled boors who’ll put up an unpleasant fuss about the mix-up until Mrs. Wilson cries or swears a blue streak. I’d rather not listen to all that, would you?” Sherlock reclined on the small sofa, his feet extending over the end.

John grudgingly had to admit he had a point. “Did you talk to the parents, then?” he asked, keeping to the safe topic of the case and sitting down in a chair opposite.

“I did. Your comment about Claire needing money made me think to ask again if anything valuable had gone missing. Her mother had another look: nothing.” Sherlock stretched, rubbed his neck. “So I predict they’ll be hearing from Claire in the next 24 hours from a city within a 4-hour radius.”

“Wait. What?”

“Think about it. No sign of a struggle anywhere, no enemies, a young woman with domineering, overprotective parents, bored and frustrated, strikes out on her own, finds her meager savings rapidly dwindling, loses her determination, calls her parents to send her money. Or else she did fall off a cliff in a freak accident, and the dogs will track that down soon enough.”

“God, Sherlock, I hope you didn’t tell her parents that last part.”

“I refrained.” Sherlock folded his hands under his chin and John looked at him for a long moment.

“Well,” John finally said, "I hope you're right about her calling. But that’s why I should be there in those situations -- to step in before you say something stupid. So why, exactly, didn’t you want me to come along this afternoon?” He realized it sounded petulant, but it stung, the way Sherlock was pushing him aside, seemingly oblivious to what had happened between them during the rainstorm.

Sherlock was silent for so long that John thought he was ignoring the question. Finally, he answered. “You were... too distracting. I needed to focus.”

John wasn’t sure how to take his explanation -- was it good or bad that he was a distraction? Christ, this was complicated. He massaged his temples with one hand. “Right,” John said, giving up again. “Fine.” He didn’t have the energy to play enigmatic games. He retreated to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, changed into pyjamas, tried to ignore the confusion roiling inside him.

When he stepped out again, his eyes caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s bare back, lean and muscular, as he pulled a grey t-shirt over his head. John bit his lip, looked away. He picked up a book, pretended to study the cover as he moved to the bed, flicked on a lamp.

He attempted to read a few pages while Sherlock got ready for bed, heard footsteps and voices in the hallway, the bump and jostle of suitcases and doors shutting, the muffled sound of a television.

When John looked up, Sherlock was back on the sofa, his phone in his hand, one long index finger scrolling through something on the screen. His knees were bent, his feet jammed against the arm of the sofa. There was no way he was going to sleep well on that thing.

John sighed. The entire day had been confusing, why not just add to it? “Sherlock,” he said. “Come here.”

Sherlock’s eyes lifted up. John drew back the sheets. “There’s room for two. No sense in ruining your back on that.”

Sherlock looked uncertain, but slowly stood up.

“Switch off the light, will you?” John asked, and Sherlock did, the small reading lamp by the bed now casting the only light in the room.

Sherlock gingerly sat on the bed as John closed the book and reached out to flick off the lamp. He turned on his side to face the wall, felt Sherlock settle next to him, lying very still.

In the dark, John found it much easier to speak. “Are we not going to talk about what happened?” he asked softly.

Several seconds passed before Sherlock answered, his voice unusually subdued. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Are you sorry it happened?” John asked.

“No.”

“Neither am I.” John turned onto his back, stared at the ceiling. He was vibrantly aware of Sherlock next to him, caught a faint whiff of cigarette smoke from his hair. “You were smoking,” he said.

“You were drinking.”

Outside, a woman’s laughter floated up from the street, a dog barked.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the ceiling. "Look, you know I'm not… I’m not good at that sort of thing. Relationships.”

John turned his head, now looking at Sherlock’s profile. “Nobody is.”

Sherlock smiled wryly. "That’s not reassuring.”

John caught the fleeting quirk of his mouth before it fell again, his expression suddenly shifting into anger, then anguish.

“I don’t _want_ to _need_ anybody,” Sherlock finally said vehemently.

So that was it. “Sherlock,” John countered quietly, “I think we’ve already passed that point.”

Sherlock threw an arm over his eyes, his elbow a sharp silhouette. There was a long silence, a reluctant admission. “I know.”

John gazed at him. _I can’t distinguish want from need anymore,_ John thought. _They're too entwined._ He watched Sherlock’s chest rise and fall, took in the contrast of dark curls against the white pillowcase. _Want and need..._ They had crossed some line of demarcation while sheltering from the rain, toward what end he didn't know, but he did know this: "I want to touch you,” John confessed, nearly whispering. “Can I do that?”

Sherlock let his arm slide from his eyes, left it crooked over his head, capitulating to his own want. “Yes,” he said, still looking at the ceiling.

John placed his palm on Sherlock’s waist, feeling the firm ridge of his rib cage with his thumb, lightly bunching the soft cotton of his shirt with his fingertips. With the slightest pressure of his hand, he urged Sherlock to turn and face him, his fingers grazing the skin just beneath the fabric as he moved.

Close together like this in the darkness, words faded away, useless. Sherlock's hand extended, cautiously settling above John's hip, and they drew together gradually, inevitably, until their mouths were mere millimeters apart.

They waited through several aching moments of delay, their lips finally brushing, then meeting again, lingering, a mutual drawing in of breath, hands drifting from waists to shoulders to necks, small exhalations drowning out the other sounds of the world, moonlight spilling through the window.


End file.
